Tattoos & Teacups

by Anna Martin

  “It’s nowhere near as big as the crowds at the symphony.”

  That was a fair point.

  I was nervous.

  “You should wear your new blue-and-white striped shirt,” he said, finally rolling off the bed in the direction of the shower. Thank God.

  I was puzzled. “I don’t have a new blue-and-white striped shirt.”

  Chris just winked at me as he sauntered into the bathroom.

  Hanging in my wardrobe when I checked it was a blue and white shirt, the same brand as Chris’s checked one that I’d admired only the previous weekend.

  The fit was slightly tighter than what I would normally wear, but I guessed that was the style. The sleeves rolled up and were secured at this funny mid-length with a little tab. I chose a darker pair of jeans to wear with it and a pair of heavy boots. I was just buttoning my fly when the shower was turned off.

  Then the bathroom door was flung open and Chris stood in the doorway, as he was wont to do, his hands balled on his hips and his legs spread in a pornographic parody of Peter Pan. He grinned, too, nodded to his impressively erect penis, and wiggled his shoulders. He’d tied a towel around his neck to serve as a cape, and with the steam from the shower swirling behind him, I couldn’t help but laugh. Christopher Jacob Ford the first and only certainly knew how to make an entrance.

  “You’re trouble,” I said. “Thank you for the shirt.”

  He pressed his lips together to hide his grin. And gestured to his erection. “Actions speak louder than words, Rob.”

  He really did have an answer for everything.

  Still, I didn’t mind spending a few minutes on my knees, especially when it meant taking his warm, soft, blessedly clean cock down my throat. His skin was still warm and damp from the shower, and his knees gave way when he came.

  “Your turn to get dressed,” I said as he helped pull me to my feet.

  “Ugh,” he groaned. “No sleepy time?”

  “No time for sleepy time,” I said. “Gig, remember?”

  “Don’t want a gig,” he said and wrapped his arms around my neck. “I want to stay here and let you fuck me.”

  “Later.” I laughed.

  “Promise?”

  “If you’re a good boy.”

  “Oh, Professor,” he sighed. “That happens so rarely.”

  I FIELDED no less than six calls from Lexi as Chris took his time getting dressed and styling his hair. He was, according to the only female and official timekeeper of the group, the last person to turn up to the venue. But he looked hot, really hot, so as far as I was concerned, it was worth it. Lexi didn’t seem to agree.

  He wore what I’d first assumed were a pair of his biker’s leather pants, but closer inspection (much closer inspection, particularly of his ass) revealed that they were far too tight to give him any protection on his motorbike.

  Made of soft, worn leather, these were—in his words—the holy grail of leather pants. He didn’t wear underwear with them.

  “Why distract from the goods?”

  And a black tank top.

  “You’re going to freeze.”

  “Then you better keep me warm, Professor.”

  Over the weeks my bathroom counter had amassed a rather impressive collection of Chris’s personal grooming products, from three different types of hair stuff to shaving paraphernalia and cologne. I was somewhat surprised to find a black eyeliner pencil in amongst his things and dismissed it, assuming it had been stuffed into his bag by mistake when he was collecting things to bring over. It was probably Lexi’s.

  My assumption was incorrect.

  While I was taking another of Lexi’s calls, I found him leaning over the counter, peering into my mirror and smudging the black pencil along his lower lashes.

  “Makeup?” I asked when I finished the call with a solemn promise that we were practically in the car. “Really?”

  He shrugged. “It makes me look hot.”

  When he finally left the bathroom, I couldn’t help but agree with his assessment. His now lined eyes made him look moody and edgy and, yes, hot. When added to his outfit, it put him over the line from hot into fucking gorgeous.

  “Kiss me,” he demanded. “It makes my lips all swollen too.”

  “I want them all to know you’re mine,” I said as I gripped his hips and attacked his mouth with tongue and teeth. “Mine.”

  It was childish, but I placed a little hickey behind his ear for good measure. Mine.

  While the band warmed up with the sound tech, I was left alone at the bar. Not that I really minded. There were a few other people around, and I found an old paperback in the car, and a pair of reading glasses so I could see in the dim light, and ordered a bottle of beer.

  As the evening slipped on, I became more engrossed in one of my favorite stories and didn’t notice when Chris crept up behind me and slid his arms around my waist.

  “Do you have any idea how hot you look?”

  “Hmm? Do you want a drink?”

  “I want you to fuck me. Right now. Over the bar. Don’t take the glasses off.”

  I laughed and twisted in his arms, kissing him swiftly on the nose. “Is that behaving yourself, Christopher?”

  “No,” he said petulantly. “Vodka?”

  “Straight?”

  “Never.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “On the rocks,” he clarified.

  He threw the drink back, shuddered, and kissed me with liquor lips. When I finally drew my eyes away from his throat as he swallowed, I noticed that the bar had filled up considerably.

  “Our set starts at ten,” Chris said. “Do you want to hang out here or backstage with us?”

  “I’m okay here,” I said. “I expect I’ll only be a distraction if I come back with you.”

  “The best kind,” he said, but didn’t push. “I’ll come find you when we finish.”

  The atmosphere was electric as the first two bands played. I got the impression they were local and certainly got the crowd on their side. I started to think that maybe I should have accepted Chris’s offer to go backstage with him. My naturally self-conscious nature kicked into gear, and I couldn’t help but scan the crowd for signs of my students or worse—my colleagues.

  But I seemed to be safe.

  And then Chris came onto the stage, and I tuned out everyone around me. I’d wanted to stay in the same spot so he could easily find me, if he wanted to, and sure enough he scanned the crowd and smiled when he found me.

  No one else would have noticed it. But I did.

  They launched straight into a roaring number that caught the attention of the last few doubters and their applause, and mine, when it finished.

  John angled his microphone and pushed his hair back from his face.

  “Hi,” he said with a smile. “We’re Ice on the Tracks.”

  Chris thumped out the rhythm, and they started again.

  Their strategy of playing a mixture of their own stuff and covers, from the inevitable Pink Floyd to Kings of Leon, Lady Gaga, and David Bowie, kept the crowd on its toes and willing to listen to their own music, which was good.

  My boyfriend, though hidden at the back, drew attention to himself like bees to honey. After the first few numbers, he pulled his tank off and used it to wipe the sweat from his face, much to the approval of the female portion of the audience. He sang, too, which was a surprise to me. They had positioned his microphone up and away from the drums, so he tilted his head up and back slightly to sing into it. From that angle the hickey I’d left on his neck was visible to anyone wanting to look for it.

  Good.

  They caught a quick break, and the band grabbed bottles of water as John breathlessly introduced everyone.

  “This is Lexi.” Sparkling in gold sequins, cut so high on her thigh her black shorts underneath peeped out. Thigh-high leather boots. Red lips. Stunningly beautiful. If you were into that kind of thing, of course.

  “Danny.” Screams for the dark, brooding,
attractive man who lifted a hand from his guitar in greeting.

  “Chris….” Louder, more desperate screaming for the man in black leather, who played them right back by crashing his cymbals.

  “And I’m John. Thanks for coming tonight.”

  Chris yelled something at him from around the mic. John nodded and lifted his guitar again.

  “This one’s for Rob,” Chris said into the mic, grinning in my direction.

  They played a rocked-out version of “Mrs. Robinson” by Simon and Garfunkel. The little shit.

  For a climactic moment, if they even needed one, Lexi, John, and Danny put down their instruments mid-song, leaving Chris alone on the drums. Not that he stopped drumming….

  The others left the stage, Danny jumping right into the crowd, John hopping off more gracefully and lifting his arms for Lexi to drop into a dizzying spin to the floor. Chris added his voice to the rhythms, slow, sexy phrases designed to elicit exactly the kind of reaction he got, and the others walked to the bar, toward me.

  This was clearly a well-rehearsed part of their set as the barman immediately pushed three short glasses of clear liquor toward them, which they toasted and slammed back before taking to a run through the crowd to get back to the stage.

  Seamlessly, they picked up the beat and finished the song.

  I felt like I’d had an experience. And I was hard. Not halfway there, the state of semi-arousal that Chris’s mere presence seemed to cause, but real, button-fly-straining erection that pointed right to what it wanted. Which would be Chris’s naked, sweaty, hard-muscled chest.

  I had no idea what would happen when we got home. Bad things. Very bad things.

  They finished the set, and after an encore, a DJ took over and tried to keep the party atmosphere going.

  True to his promise, as soon as they were done on stage, Chris pocketed his drumsticks and made his way through the packed club toward me. He was stopped every few minutes to exchange a few words of conversation or an offered hand to shake, kiss a girl on the cheek, and flirt outrageously with everyone he came in contact with. He still hadn’t put his shirt back on; it had been tucked into another pocket and trailed behind him limply.

  He clearly had a reputation to uphold as something of a rebel and a terrible flirt, and I didn’t mind that part so much. It was more like… he was flaunting it in front of me, this carefree troublemaker persona that he wore with such ease.

  “You were great,” I said as he finally sidled up to the bar.

  “Thanks,” he said with an easy grin. The bartender let him skip the line and poured him two shots of vodka. The first he threw back, the second he held on to.

  I curled my hand around his hip possessively, and he gave me a look that clearly said he knew what I was doing. I didn’t care. Mine.

  A breathy, busty, blonde girl flitted over to us and gave Chris a pouty smile.

  “Could I get your autograph?” she asked, batting her false eyelashes. She looked ridiculous.

  “Sure.”

  She presented him with a red marker.

  “Oh….” False fingernails flew to her painted mouth. “I don’t have any paper.”

  Chris raised his eyebrow, tucked his tongue into his cheek, and obligingly signed her breasts with a flourish.

  “Do you want another drink?” I asked him as he handed back the marker.

  “Nah, I’m good for a minute.”

  The groupies were still lingering.

  “Introduce us, Chris,” the girl with his name on her breasts said, clutching at his arm. “Is this your dad?”

  He pulled a variety of faces as he tried to hold in his laughter, ending with his lips pressed tightly together. In my head I repeated one mantra: I must not hit girls, I must not hit girls, I must not hit girls.

  “No,” Chris said eventually. “This is my… friend, Rob.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she simpered and gave me a look that clearly said, Fuck off.

  “Excuse us,” he said, grabbed my arm, and dragged me into the crowd of people. When we were a safe distance away, he caught my eye and burst into laughter.

  “Don’t,” I said in my scariest teacher voice. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Daddy.”

  “I thought you were being good tonight,” I said, pulling him close. “Are you being a good boy, Christopher?”

  “I’m trying so very, very hard.”

  “Not hard enough,” I said, playing the game now. “Do you know what happens to boys who can’t behave themselves?”

  “Oh, I hope I do,” he said, his voice right next to my ear now so I could hear his husky tone.

  “Want to stay awhile?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  Our escape was somewhat hampered by Chris’s insistence that we stop in the parking lot to make out. He made what I decided was a very valid point—that since he didn’t have a jacket, or even a shirt on, he should share my coat. It made walking slightly difficult. Hence all the kissing.

  When we arrived home, there was a moment when we silently discussed with a look whether the game would continue. The look on his face begged for it.

  “You acted like an outrageous flirt tonight,” I started, giving him an opening if he wanted it.

  “Yes,” he said. Averted his eyes to the floor.

  “I don’t like you touching girls,” I continued. None of this was part of the game. It was all completely true—and he knew it.

  “I’m sorry.” His words were barely more than a whisper.

  “And making me feel like an old man did not help your case.”

  “I don’t think you’re an old man.”

  “Good. But that’s not enough. I warned you what would happen if you couldn’t behave yourself.”

  The quickening of his breath was all the indication I needed that he was desperately aroused. Chris’s eyes were locked with mine as he unbuttoned, then slowly drew his pants down, stepping out of them and casting them aside. Standing in front of me, gloriously naked, he cast his eyes down submissively.

  The sight of him like that was all I needed—if any confirmation was required—that I was not interested in having a passive, submissive man as my lover. I grabbed his chin and dragged it to my kiss.

  “Over my knee,” I instructed.

  I was still clothed and he naked; this only added to that delicious spike of naughtiness.

  I rubbed a cool palm over his ass, warming the area slightly before letting a stinging slap grace one cheek.

  “Fuck,” Chris hissed.

  “Now, now,” I admonished. “I don’t expect such language from you, young man.”

  I slapped Chris’s ass again, letting the heat spread and rubbing the area before spanking again. And again. Chris’s moans intensified as I turned up the pressure and delivered three hard slaps in quick succession, appreciating the way a pink tinge spread across his pretty, round ass.

  “Please,” Chris begged incoherently.

  “Please what?” I asked, punctuating my question with another thump. “Please spank me harder, Daddy?”

  “Please spank me harder, Daddy,” he begged, and I had to fight back my orgasm, which was threatening to break free from those words combined with the friction of my cock rubbing against Chris’s hot body.

  “Stand up and turn around, Chris. Hands on the bed. Spread your legs a little bit. I want a nice view for what I’m about to do to you.”

  Chris quickly followed my instructions. It was incredible how turned on he was just by being punished. I, too, wasn’t quite sure if it had more to do with my being in complete control over the situation or if it was simply the sexual tension in the room, which almost seemed to coat every surface with our desires. Either way, I knew Chris would do anything I asked of him.

  Once Chris was in place, I took a few moments to appreciate the manly work of art presented before me. No one had ever turned me on as effortlessly as Chris was able to
do just by standing there in submission.

  “Close your eyes, baby,” I said in a breathy whisper directly into Chris’s ear. Quietly, I undid my pants and let them pool around my ankles, making my cock spring free without the confines of underwear to hold it in place. I grabbed myself and slowly stroked from base to tip, twisting my wrist just slightly near the end to get the friction I so badly wanted, but I knew I couldn’t finish yet. After a couple of minutes of pleasuring myself, I gently started to rub my dick on the backsides of Chris’s thighs and ass cheeks. Chris moaned in appreciation and muttered a quiet “Fuck.”

  “No talking, boy. I’m not done punishing you yet.”

  So slowly that it was torture for the both of us, I moved my cock up from his right thigh toward where he wanted to be buried deep enough to make us both cry out in ecstasy. I pushed forward just enough that Chris could feel the pressure but never close enough to penetrate like I so desired to do.

  Chris was going wild with want. He couldn’t help but scream out a strangled “God, Rob, just put it in already.” It was exactly the reaction I’d been hoping for. Smirking, I quickly pulled my cock back and came down hard with my hand to the left side of his backside. Pleased by the loud whimper that came forth from his mouth, I started rubbing the tender flesh as I had only a few minutes earlier.

  “Tell me what you want, Chris, and I might give it to you,” I stated with a calm voice that belied the pent-up tension my body was feeling without the release I desperately wanted.

  “You, Rob, I want you in me… now!” Chris was almost pleading by this point.

  “Need to be more specific than that, baby. Turn around and get on your knees. You know what to do.”

  With a frustrated groan, Chris fell to his knees before me.

  Chris dipped his head slightly and peeked up at me through the hair that fell in his eyes. Giving a wink, he let his tongue come out to taste the precome that had gathered at the tip of my dick. He swirled his tongue around the head before slowly engulfing the entire thing as far as his mouth would allow. He was quite proud of his ability to deep-throat me like no other had ever been able to do before. Just as the tip reached the back of this throat, he swallowed, allowing it to go that much deeper.